her old Land Rover, which rumbled and vibrated so much I felt it through the seat under me. The car sputtered a bit as it pulled itself up the hill away from her neighborhood.
“ Yes,” I said. “We went to Florence last summer.”
Aunt Lydia smirked. “I’m not talking quite that Italian. This is a little mom and pop place. Spaghetti mostly, but they do have really good ravioli. It’s not even from a can!”
She laughed, glancing over at me, and I made myself laugh too. I had changed into a white sundress and red espadrilles, and pulled my hair back with a white headband. Aunt Lydia had raised her eyebrows at my outfit when I came into the living room just before we left. She’d looked down at her ratty jeans and old tank top, then said, “Oh, I guess I’ll change.”
Mom always insisted we look nice for dinner. Even before Dad’s bank went big, Mom made a big production out of dinner. We had to be dressed nicely, hands freshly washed, and shoes on our feet even when we were eating at home. It was one of Mom’s rules (number seventeen, in fact).
“ No, you don’t have to,” I’d told Aunt Lydia, feeling suddenly embarrassed to be so overdressed. I’d tried to go change, but she wouldn’t let me. And so we’d left just as we were: me looking like I was going on a date, and her looking like she was getting ready to dig in a garden.
I rested my head against the cool glass of the passenger window, watching as the world passed outside. We still hadn’t gotten onto the highway, so we were driving slowly through the houses around Aunt Lydia’s neighborhood. I hadn’t been too far away from her house when I got the flat tire earlier, just a few blocks over in the opposite direction. I still wasn’t sure about my bearings though, since most of the houses looked the same: red brick and small, with grass that was drying out under the summer sun.
A bright flash of red caught my eye as we turned a corner. A huge tree stood on the corner of a lot belonging to yet another red brick house. It looked like all the other houses around it, except for the piles of old tires leaning against the house and the bright red plaid shirt that hung from one of the lowest tree branches. The shirt swayed back and forth in the breeze, the sleeves flapping like an invisible man waving his arms.
I could imagine what my mother would say if she was there. “It’s ridiculous how some people don’t care about the image they project to the rest of the world, Hannah. Aren’t you glad we know better?”
We didn’t go all the way into Asheville. The restaurant Aunt Lydia wanted to take me to was on the outskirts of town. Tall trees half-hid the little brown building, and a bright green neon sign read “Papa Gino’s.”
The restaurant was Italian in the way that people who have never been to Italy think it is. Red-checked tablecloths covered the little tables, and a pizza buffet was set up along one wall.
“ Lydia!” A woman’s voice boomed as we entered the dimly lit room. A gray-haired tiny woman rushed over to hug Aunt Lydia. She looked too small for the commanding voice that came out of her. “You haven’t been to see us in ages, Capretta !”
“ I’m sorry,” Aunt Lydia said. “I haven’t gotten out much. But my niece is staying with me, so I brought her to meet you.” She gestured toward me. “This is Hannah. Hannah, this is Rita Lagasse.”
The old woman scowled at Aunt Lydia. “Don’t be so formal. Everyone calls me Mama Rita,” she told me just before she enveloped me in a tight hug that locked my arms at my sides. For such a small old woman, she was pretty strong.
Mama Rita led us to a table near one of the few windows in the place. “Best seat in the house,” she said proudly.
“ Thank you, Mama,” Lydia said. Mama Rita took our orders for drinks and then hurried away, disappearing through a wooden door.
“ So,” Aunt Lydia said, resting her arms on the table and leaning forward, “what are
“ Yes,” I said. “We went to Florence last summer.”
Aunt Lydia smirked. “I’m not talking quite that Italian. This is a little mom and pop place. Spaghetti mostly, but they do have really good ravioli. It’s not even from a can!”
She laughed, glancing over at me, and I made myself laugh too. I had changed into a white sundress and red espadrilles, and pulled my hair back with a white headband. Aunt Lydia had raised her eyebrows at my outfit when I came into the living room just before we left. She’d looked down at her ratty jeans and old tank top, then said, “Oh, I guess I’ll change.”
Mom always insisted we look nice for dinner. Even before Dad’s bank went big, Mom made a big production out of dinner. We had to be dressed nicely, hands freshly washed, and shoes on our feet even when we were eating at home. It was one of Mom’s rules (number seventeen, in fact).
“ No, you don’t have to,” I’d told Aunt Lydia, feeling suddenly embarrassed to be so overdressed. I’d tried to go change, but she wouldn’t let me. And so we’d left just as we were: me looking like I was going on a date, and her looking like she was getting ready to dig in a garden.
I rested my head against the cool glass of the passenger window, watching as the world passed outside. We still hadn’t gotten onto the highway, so we were driving slowly through the houses around Aunt Lydia’s neighborhood. I hadn’t been too far away from her house when I got the flat tire earlier, just a few blocks over in the opposite direction. I still wasn’t sure about my bearings though, since most of the houses looked the same: red brick and small, with grass that was drying out under the summer sun.
A bright flash of red caught my eye as we turned a corner. A huge tree stood on the corner of a lot belonging to yet another red brick house. It looked like all the other houses around it, except for the piles of old tires leaning against the house and the bright red plaid shirt that hung from one of the lowest tree branches. The shirt swayed back and forth in the breeze, the sleeves flapping like an invisible man waving his arms.
I could imagine what my mother would say if she was there. “It’s ridiculous how some people don’t care about the image they project to the rest of the world, Hannah. Aren’t you glad we know better?”
We didn’t go all the way into Asheville. The restaurant Aunt Lydia wanted to take me to was on the outskirts of town. Tall trees half-hid the little brown building, and a bright green neon sign read “Papa Gino’s.”
The restaurant was Italian in the way that people who have never been to Italy think it is. Red-checked tablecloths covered the little tables, and a pizza buffet was set up along one wall.
“ Lydia!” A woman’s voice boomed as we entered the dimly lit room. A gray-haired tiny woman rushed over to hug Aunt Lydia. She looked too small for the commanding voice that came out of her. “You haven’t been to see us in ages, Capretta !”
“ I’m sorry,” Aunt Lydia said. “I haven’t gotten out much. But my niece is staying with me, so I brought her to meet you.” She gestured toward me. “This is Hannah. Hannah, this is Rita Lagasse.”
The old woman scowled at Aunt Lydia. “Don’t be so formal. Everyone calls me Mama Rita,” she told me just before she enveloped me in a tight hug that locked my arms at my sides. For such a small old woman, she was pretty strong.
Mama Rita led us to a table near one of the few windows in the place. “Best seat in the house,” she said proudly.
“ Thank you, Mama,” Lydia said. Mama Rita took our orders for drinks and then hurried away, disappearing through a wooden door.
“ So,” Aunt Lydia said, resting her arms on the table and leaning forward, “what are
Similar Books
My October
Claire Holden Rothman
This Battle Lord's Quest
Linda Mooney
The Arctic Code
Matthew J. Kirby
Little Girl Lost
Tristan J. Tarwater
Dead Room Farce
Simon Brett
Up in Smoke
Alice Brown
Pilgrim’s Rest
Patricia Wentworth
The Berlin Conspiracy
Tom Gabbay
The Boy Who Plaited Manes
Nancy Springer
